


I'm Not Even Done With You

by exquisiteagony



Category: Emilie Autumn (Musician), Murderdolls (Band), Wednesday 13 (Band)
Genre: Begging, Blood Kink, Cutting, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Filming, Knifeplay, Murder, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Touching, Psychological Torture, Rape, Sexual assualt, Stalking, Torture, death mention, i guess??, kidnap, non-consensual stripping, not like self harm cutting, read the tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:27:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27560743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exquisiteagony/pseuds/exquisiteagony
Summary: Of all the things about his profession, it was the capture of his prey, and the first few days after, that thrilled Wednesday the most. The capture always set his blood racing, for the chance of being caught was at its greatest, and watching his victims plead prettily for him, still full of hope for their own survival, was wonderful. He felt like a puppet-master, his victims his marionettes, jerking about on strings that made them dance for him.
Relationships: Joseph Poole| Wednesday 13/Emilie Autumn
Kudos: 2





	I'm Not Even Done With You

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the songs 'Zodiac' and 'I Love Watching You Die' by Wednesday 13 and 'Nothing' by Emilie Autumn. Title from 'I Love Watching You Die'. Disclaimer that this is a work of fiction and not meant to reflect my opinion of the artists involved.

Of all the things about his profession, it was the capture of his prey, and the first few days after, that thrilled Wednesday the most. The capture always set his blood racing, for the chance of being caught was at its greatest, and watching his victims plead prettily for him, still full of hope for their own survival, was wonderful. He felt like a puppet-master, his victims his marionettes, jerking about on strings that made them dance for him.

Nay, he felt like a god.

How could he not, when he had been doing this for so long he’d perfected his craft, and was unlikely to ever be caught? He’d started off young, barely a child himself, and his first few had been messy. The past decade had leant itself to experience and skill, and he knew enough to never be caught.

And he didn’t exist anymore.

Not in the eyes of the law, at least. Joseph Poole had died in a work accident at twenty, when a stack of shelves had fallen and killed him. The janitor had disappeared, never to be seen again, but he had no family, and garnered much less interest in the small town than the native local.

Wednesday had watched his own funeral from outside the cemetery; watched his parents wail as the janitor was lowered into the grave in front of them. He’d barely felt a shred of regret.

He’d had to fake his death, and it was for the best. This way, they'd remember him fondly, not as the soulless killer he was believed to be known.

He wasn’t a complete piece of shit. Not when it came to them.

His current victim, a young woman named Emilie, was beginning to stir, so Wednesday stood up and checked his death-mask was covering him properly, before double-checking his knives were all on the tray next to her, laid out in size order and turning on the video recorder he’d set up.

It was always nice to have something to jerk off to when he was without a victim, or when his sexual needs outweighed the terror he wanted them to feel.

Emilie mumbled, more of a murmur than any proper words, and he turned to regard her again.

She was a pretty little thing, dainty, all bony wrists and long, slim legs, strapped to an old gurney in the abandoned hospital. The hospital issue brown cuffs seemed to dwarf her wrists and ankles, like she was just pale bone, no life to her. Her combat boots he’d left on the lower layer of his tray. No point in giving her the means to kick him hard. Last time, they’d nearly escaped. He wasn’t the type of man to make the same mistake twice.

Whilst staking her out as a victim, he’d noticed many more things about her, like her strange, theatrically steampunk attire, and the big brown doe eyes he’d come face to face with when he bumped into her at a gas station two days ago. She’d been buying petrol, he cigarettes. She hadn’t looked twice at him, just a timid smile and turned her head away.

She was perhaps his favourite yet.

Up close again, with more time to take her in, he ran a finger through her hair. Bleached and dyed a dull pink, and surprisingly soft. He’d make a memento from it, he decided, once she was dead. A little loop, braided, probably. Maybe he’d wear it somewhere, or keep it from the world in a jar or little bottle like he did with the rest of his victims.

She groaned again, and Wednesday picked up his favourite knife - something between a Bowie knife and a machete he’d sharpened an hour ago - and advanced towards her.

It was another minute before she was fully awake, and he briefly wondered if not gagging her was an oversight, but it was too late. He had a knife, anyway, and could threaten her into silence.

And the old asylum was miles away from any houses. Unless there was some weirdo in the woods outside, the only souls around were badgers and foxes and owls, and their various preys. No one would come running for her. He was safe to do with her as he wished, tormenting her with pain before tormenting her with his absence. By the time he finally put her out of her misery, she wouldn’t know if she hated his presence, or longed for it. She’d fear the dark as much as she’d fear the light that preceded his arrival, and she’d loathe nourishment as much as she’d loathe its deprivation.

She’d be begging for him to kill her.

They all did, in the end. Sometimes, he even indulged them quickly. Usually he didn’t, but it all depended upon whether he’d picked his next potential mark or had to get out of town sooner rather than later.

When she finally awoke, he was leant over her, twiddling the tip of his knife against his finger, head tilted in the predatory manner he’d perfected.

To her credit, she didn’t scream. Those doe eyes were wide with terror, and she trembled to behold him, but she didn’t scream.

“Look at that,” he crooned in a voice he’d had the chance to practice throughout the years, “I don’t even have to tell you not to scream.”

There was silence for a few seconds as she blinked and stared at him.

“Who are you?” she eventually breathed, barely a stammer in her voice. “Where am I?”

It was a nice voice, cultured and refined, barely a hint of the West Coast in it.

Oh, he wanted to hear her speak some more. But not just yet. Giving his victims the opportunity to attempt to build up a rapport, the chance to figure out who he was, was something he liked to hold off for a few weeks.

He chuckled darkly. “Since you’re such a pretty little thing, and so nicely quiet for me, I shall indulge you. You may call me Wednesday, though if you’ve ever heard of me, you shan’t know me by that name. And we are still in New York, fret not. You shall never leave the city, my dear. I wouldn’t want to take you so far from your home.”

Emilie eyed the knife, her throat shuddering. That and her twitching fingers, and her wide wide eyes were the only tells to her fear.

She truly was a good little thing.

“What are you going to do with me?”

Wednesday paused, because he knew how they’d fear him more than if he sprang it all on them.

And he was dramatic.

Then he tilted his head, looking her up and down. He could spilt her corset open with his knife, and he dragged the point of the blade down from her neck to the bronze and cream frills and lace, letting gravity pull it down her sternum, down into the dip of what little cleavage he saw.

She trembled again, but he already knew he wouldn’t do that. The corset was pretty enough for him to consider keeping, and ruining it wouldn’t achieve anything except cheap fear. Instead, he let the tip drag over it, gently snagging on the copper satin as he pulled it down her body.

No.

Beneath the corset was more copper and bronze lacy frill, rucked up close to the stiff bottom of the busk, because she’d been a restless captive despite the chloroform, shifting around in her forced slumber. Under the skirt of her corset was brown fishnet, and he knew what he was going to do.

Dragging the knife still, now over the painted steel of the busk, he said, “for now? I’m going to hurt you.”

It was the truth, cold and brutal. Flicking his eyes back to her face for a second, he saw her eyes widen. She knew he wasn’t lying.

Good. Sometimes they didn’t seem to understand, didn’t seem to believe him. That bored him, because he had little reason to lie, but he supposed murder wasn’t a profession that obviously lent itself to honesty.

“W-why?”

He could hear the tremor in her voice, but didn’t look up from where he was dragging the knife until he heard a delicate sniff.

Every one of his victims cried at a different time, and every one needed a different handling if he was to have his fun. Some would need him to put his knife down and speak soft, comforting words, and others he would decide needed a good shock of pain to either make them pull themselves together, or shriek for him. Sometimes it was a literal shock, the old hospital electrotherapy equipment still holding a bit of juice, and sometimes it was for him to suddenly stick his knife in them. Usually it was a slap to their faces, and he liked to watch the blood bloom under their skin afterwards, cheeks red with his handprint.

Sometimes he would ignore the tears.

Today he did neither.

“Don’t cry, Emilie,” he said softly, revelling in her gasp, eyes bright with new fear that sent lightning through him, into his pants. “Oh yes. I know your name.” Wednesday brushed away a budding tear with his thumb, silently gleeful at how she flinched. It was tiny, near-imperceptible, but he was watching for it. The little thrill it gave him fuelled his power trip, and he waited to see what she’d do next.

It was a game of mental cat and mouse, and he would make her blink first. He always did.

He half-hoped she would speak again, but he’d appeared to have frightened her too much now, and she just bit her lip and trembled again, so he just continued dragging his knife down her body.

Emilie flinched when the knife touched her thigh, and he almost cut her.

Because he knew more than just her name. He’d been stalking her for weeks, had found out her address, if she lived alone or not (she did), what her schedule was. What she liked to eat and drink (smoothies, salad bowls, granola, coffee - all the usual healthy diet shit), what shower gel she used (Radox sea fennel), even what porn she watched (usually pretty, thin women with dyed hair being threatened and fucked at knifepoint).

It was only then he properly answered her, looking her in the eye. “Because I want to.” He paused again, taking his knife away from her, resting his hand on her leg instead.

His hand was large enough to nearly span her leg, holding her just above her knee. He could probably break her leg if he wanted to, and barely break a sweat. He gave her a cold smile, his fingers curling on her leg. She shifted, obviously desperate for him to leave her alone but unwilling to shake him off.

Usually, it took days, if not weeks, of manipulation to train them into doing what he wished. Emilie, it seemed, had a fucking brain in her skull, and was using it. Trying to appeal to his better nature, but he didn’t have one anymore.

Still, it was a lovely gesture.

He held her leg still whilst he guided the blade down the inside of her thigh, towards his hand. The straps on the gurney held her down well enough, but they didn’t completely immobilise her, and he didn’t want to cut her just yet because she jerked about needlessly.

Fishnet snagged and tore, and he glanced back up at her face after every audible tear. She was biting her lip, her teeth digging in at every sound, eyes wide. Little gasps and whimpers managed to filter their way out, and her flinches were still tiny.

Next, Wednesday considered going back up to then split the other side of her tights, but her skirt was in the way, and he didn’t want to go too quickly, so he put his knife down with as cold and cruel a smile as he could manage. Moving suddenly so his hand was higher, where her tights were ripped, he bared his teeth in a grimace of a smile, thumb brushing her exposed inner thigh like a lover with his girl.

She sobbed properly now, too scared to move much. Her leg was quivering under his touch, and she nearly screamed when he suddenly clamped his hand down, fingers digging in just light enough not to bruise. He bent over her face, leering down at her, moving in sudden jerks to make her flinch.

“Oh, you’re a pretty one.” Wednesday picked up the knife again, placing the tip just under her eye. She shuddered, her shoulders twitching, but her head didn’t move. He grinned, and dragged the blade down her face. It’s weight poked a valley in her plump cheek, and her lip trembled like she was about to cry again, but he wasn’t going to cut up her face yet. Not when he had weeks planned out with her, and she was so pretty.

Once he’d reached her lip, another tear trickled out of the corner of her eye. He slid the blade across her face to catch the tear, and licked it off the steel, chuckling darkly. Emilie whimpered.

Usually, his victims were pleading to be released by now, but either she was made of sterner stuff than it a

first appeared, or she didn’t see any sense in begging. He briefly wondered at that, but dismissed it. He could worry about that later, when he was watching back on what he’d done.

He’d spent a long time agonising over how to best put unadulterated terror into his victims. Once he’d started stalking them, he found that it differed from victim to victim. Some required him going straight in with the pain train, already scared enough, whilst others needed to be coaxed down that path. Emilie, he suspected, would be one of the rare lot that had to revile him first. It wasn’t enough for her to just fear him; the thought of him must put blind terror and revulsion into her, until he could tempt her with the notion of release and she’d jump at it, never even suspecting that it was an impossible task she could never hope to win.

Wednesday drew the blade over her chest again, tracing around the curve of her breast, ending right over her heart. He was putting more pressure on the blade now, and blood bloomed fresh on her skin, tiny seed-pearls of rich, deep red. He stepped back for a brief second, watching the red dots grow, watching the fresh, new, shock on her face dawn as she looked between her chest and him.

It wasn’t quite the revulsion he was hoping for, so he stepped forward again, leant over her, and licked up the fresh blood.

She shuddered the second his breath huffed warm against her chest, mumbling little ‘no’s and prayers when his tongue lapped at her.

Another victim might have started struggling and screaming, sitting up on the gurney to try and buck him off or bite him, but she was as doe-like as her eyes, and simply stared and trembled, laid out before him, still and pale like a body in a morgue.

He frowned down at the gash he’d cut, and knew that would have to change. Maybe he could make her clean his knives. The last girl who’d been so still hadn’t even tried to escape until then, cleaning his knives under his calm guidance with shaking hands. They’d still shook as she’d tried to stab him, but he’d avoided her trembling aim easily enough, the chains holding her back, and simply twisted her arm until she dropped the blade before cracking the back of his hand across her face so hard she’d slammed into the wall and nearly knocked herself out.

He’d already had a new mark, a new victim, by then, so he’d killed her the next day, chopping her body up and dumping the parts around her city. He’d left her head on the steps of the police station and immediately snatched the next victim up.

Emilie keened when he lapped up whatever blood bloomed again, sobbing when he licked a thin stripe along the cut. When he stepped back, she sat up violently, turned to the floor, and emptied her stomach.

When he wiped her mouth, switching to an almost gentle bedside manner, there was revulsion in her eyes.

Good.

He returned to her waist, nosing around the skirt of her corset fussily, as if he held no interest for what lay beneath the lace and frills and flounces.

It was tiered in five layers, all fastening together by hooks down the front, hidden in the lace and frills. The first frill, he estimated, made it long enough to be almost decent, as long as she didn’t bend over.

He flipped up the top flounce to find the seam, and made a slit along it.

Why he didn’t just cut it all off was beyond him, he grumbled to himself, trying to cut the bottom of the skirt off without unstrapping her, but he supposed it was better to chip away at her than go right in for the kill. It would slowly eat away at her when she was alone, when he had to sleep, and would send her spiralling into the place where he wanted her to be.

Fortunately, the bottom of the corset lacing also lay upon that seam, and the beginnings of some plan began to unfold in his mind. He pushed them away, focusing on the woman before him.

More tears were trickling down her face, and she audibly sniffed when he ripped the flounces away, bringing his knife up to hack it into a strip and pull it out from under her, tossing it away like a used food wrapper.

“That’s better now,” he crooned, his smile crooked when he stroked her cheek, letting teeth show again. “Much better for us both.”

Her breath whined out. Disgust and terror - not fear, but proper terror - warred within her eyes. 

He truly was the puppetmaster.

Wednesday then brought his knife down the inside of her other leg, ripping through the fishnet. After he took the knife away, she shifted, bringing her knees together as much as she could. It wasn’t much, he’d still be able to do whatever he wished with little issue, but whatever gave her a false semblance of hope. Instead he began to curve a line down her nearest arm, following the map of veins below the skin. Blood welled, and he licked it all up again.

This time he watched her face as he did so.

She looked like she might be sick again, so he put his knife down, between her knees, to hold her head still against the gurney whilst he licked up her cheek. He could taste salt and stale breath, and feel her eyelashes flutter against his cheek, feel how warm her face was.

It tasted like fear.

It tasted like victory.

Then he made a mistake.

He released her shoulders before he’d stood up, and she sat up, leveraging her cuffs against him, slamming her forehead into his with a meaty smack. Pain erupted through the mask, and he let out a yell, stumbling back. Emilie was straining to reach the knife, her own forehead pinkening, sudden desperation in her lean, lithe form, but he snarled and reached it before her.

She never would have reached it in the first place, but the fresh fear at his rage was intoxicating, and pretending she’d had a chance was fun. He was like a cat playing with its dinner, which was just the way he liked it.

She definitely wasn’t as broken as he’d thought. He didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

“I’ll fucking leash you, you bitch!” he growled, and pointed the knife directly at her, forcing her to lie back down to avoid being skewered. He almost wanted to slap her, but the shreds of his self-control seemed to scream ‘not yet’, so he resisted that urge.

She gulped, crying again, her tears mingling with his spit. They stared at each other, and she blinked first again, tension leaving her weeping body when she looked at the wall, her jaw set petulantly like she was trying to stay more tears.

She was beginning to give up.

He waited a few more beats to continue his torment, then carefully cut away at her tights again, joining the holes on both legs together. Her sobs shuddered when the cold of his knife bit into the top of her inner thigh when she moved, nicking the marble skin. It wasn’t deep, but blood welled up and spotted the cream frills on her underwear.

He scowled. It was time for a different knife.

He sheathed his favourite, for it was proving yet again too unwieldy for what he wanted, and turned to the tray next to Emilie. After a few seconds, he selected the balisong, and flipped it’s handles down, clipping them together with brutal efficiency, Emilie’s eyes on him. She wailed and struggled until he brought it to her chest again, gently carving a thin line to match the one he’d made earlier, then two more up to each shoulder. Sobs wracked her once he’d stepped back to admire his handiwork, the red lines looking almost like the straps of some fancy lingerie beneath her corset, instead of parted flesh and fresh blood. She’d probably have more by the time he was finished with her tonight, but that was for later. They’d bracelet each wrist like cuffs, and probably her ankles too. More could come another time, but tonight was for testing the waters.

Instead, Wednesday striped the blade down her face, from eye to lip. He considered tracing the lines of a smile over her cheeks, but facial cuts were harder to heal, and he wanted to keep her pretty until she’d fulfilled her purpose and he was finished with her.

The blood beaded on the knife mingled with her tears beautifully, dripping down her cheeks and staining them red. By the end of tonight, he wanted her to look like she’d been weeping the stuff, though she’d probably cry again until the blood was all washed off.

He could chloroform her again, and use eye drops and a dropper so it dried before it could be cried away, but that was effort he didn’t want to put in just yet. Better to wait until she was too scared to leave, where even if she somehow managed to get free the thought of him roaming the ancient halls and corridors of the sanitarium like a ghost would keep her in the cell he’d made up for her.

As the balisong was just for these thin, shallow cuts he liked to inflict and her clothing was still an obstruction, he switched it out for the switchblade.

Emilie cried again when he split her tights further, like they were a defence against him, but he paid her little mind except to chuckle. She squirmed once the knife was a safe distance away from what a refined young lass like her would probably call her ‘nether regions’, eyes wide, face and body tight with terror.

Wednesday stepped back from her to consider his options. He could go ahead and shred her tights to nothing but a pile of scrap thread, or he could cut part of her hair off in front of her, show her how disposable she was. He could strip her naked and trace the lines he’d eventually carve her up by, or he could cripple her first, smash an ankle or sever a tendon so she’d never be able to run away.

Hmmmm.

All options held their own allure, but they were all so messy in their own ways. His other options were all little tortures, though; punishments for victims that were out of line and needed shepherding back to where he wanted them.

He made his mind up.

“Sit up,” he ordered; two short barks in the quiet. “If you bite me at all I’ll gag you, and you can be thankful I didn’t smash your teeth down your throat.”

Emilie whimpered and acquiesced. Whatever bravery had led her to smack heads with him had fled, and he smiled sunnily at her, trailing a finger over the rising bruise to make her wince.

“There there. Good girl,” he purred, stepping around behind her, close enough to her that she shivered, his chin nearly touching the back of her neck.

He made short work of the corset lacings, undoing the knots with ease and unpicking the laces until it was loose. Then he shoved her back down, snapping not to try anything - as if she would again - and put his knife down to unfasten the busk of the corset and unhook her skirt.

He didn’t completely bare her. Not just yet.

She didn’t appear to be wearing anything under the corset-dress, and through the gap, the sliver of alabaster skin he could see was marked red with where it had pressed too tight. He smirked down at her, and trailed the switchblade’s point down the visible skin, from sternum to underwear. Not hard enough to cut, but enough to make her shiver.

Indeed she shivered, her breath causing her chest to judder sharply, when the point of the knife followed the curve of her body to the gurney over her underwear, and whimpered out a sob, breath coming in shallow, sharp bursts, when he pulled the knife up, pushing the flat of the blade against her. “Don’t worry about your panties,” he crooned, his tone mockingly soothing like that was what she was truly worried about.

Other than her breath, she was still, her face a mask of disgust and terror. If she moved, she would cause him to cut her, and Wednesday doubted she would want a cut right there. She might wind up with one all the same, but he didn’t want to gift that to her tonight. That was for much later, when there was little he had left to carve up, little left of her body to desecrate.

He tilted the knife so the point pressed in before he pulled it away from her body.

The jerk of her hips was almost imperceptible, disguised by how her breath eased in and out in relief afterwards, but he noticed it all the same, and a cheshire smile curled his mouth, the sight making its way into his underwear.

He changed his mind. Maybe he wouldn’t spend tonight cutting her. There were other ways to fuck with her, and if he was right, which he was sure he was, this was the best way right now.

Wednesday slipped his free hand under the open corset, cupping at her breast.

She gasped, from incredulity or fear he wasn’t entirely sure, and tried to shake him off, almost sitting up again. Instead he pinched, hard enough to make her yelp and freeze.

“Oh, honey, I saw how you twitched. Don't try to pretend otherwise.” He brought the knife back, pressing the flat against the cotton of her underwear again, watching her. Her hips twitched again, her face splotched pale and red with fear and shame afterwards. “I didn’t think a sweet little thing like you could be so dirty,” he crooned, dragging the knife up and down in a slow, lazy circuit whilst his free hand toyed with her breast. “But I might be fair. You’ve only lashed out once so far, and I suppose rewards work as well as punishments, even if they’re less fun.” He put the knife down on the tray, his other hand still under her corset, and leaned over her. “So I’ll tell you what. If by the time I cut your cute little panties off, they’re not soaked, I shan’t fuck you tonight. Or, no, I shan't fuck you until you’re wet for me, if not outright begging for me.”

Emilie sobbed again, her eyes fixed on him. He stroked her cheek, pulling his hand from the warmth below her corset, then slipped his hand down and tightened it around her throat. Not enough to choke, but enough to be a noticeable restraint. “Noo, please,” she sobbed, voice rough from tears and his hand.

He tilted his head, playing at confusion. “You’re hardly gonna need them anymore. And don’t worry. You’re gonna enjoy it, even if you don’t think you will now.” He striped the knife down her cheeks again, through her tear tracks.

“I’ll never want you,” she spat, her throat fluttering under his grip, her pretty makeup smudged. The heart she must have drawn on so carefully was smudged nearly beyond recognition.

She wasn’t resisting anymore, just lying there resigned and angry.

Resentful.

Good.

He wasn’t even touching her in any place she could get wet, but if the feel of a hand on her neck got her wet that was certainly not his fault.

Well, he knew her porn choices, so maybe it was.

None of what he’d seen had even remotely featured strangulation, though, so actually it wasn’t.

Instead of getting lost down that line of thought, he simply said, “Do not deal in absolutes, my dear. You all do in the end.” Soothingly, calmly, like it was obvious, the natural order of things.

Because they were always wanting in the end.

She wept still, crying her painted heart off, so he fastened a strap across her shoulders - a previous victim had bitten him when he’d climbed onto the gurney to fuck them and he now took no chances - and began to touch her again, slowly ramping it up. He was gentle, for there was plenty of time for violence later, and it seemed to fuck them up more if he was jarringly gentle whilst fucking them.

He might be a serial killer in the streets, but he was a gentleman in the sheets.

He might have laughed at himself when he’d first come up with that, but no one had to know. It might be a cliched sentence, but that didn’t make it false.

He didn’t stop until her sobs were more akin to moans, and it was difficult to know if her wriggling was against him or her bindings. Then he flipped both halves of her corset off her body and continued with his gentle carving, until thin bloody lines encircled her waist and ribs.

Her skin pebbled after his touch, in a mixture of cold and revulsion. Wednesday smiled as rakishly as if it had been arousal all the same, and traced an ‘X’ over her heart, holding her gaze captive in his whilst he licked up the blood.

When he finally hacked her underwear off, sliding the switchblade under the seams and tearing them with a loud ripping noise, it wasn’t dry.

He grinned, and immediately slid two fingers into her wetness.

She yelped in shock at his intrusion, then cried again.

It was all shame. She was squirming, face turned away like she was trying to pretend it wasn’t happening, her breath coming and going faster. He pulled his fingers out of her, held her head down, and shoved those fingers into her mouth. She whimpered in distress and disgust, and the look on her face mingled with her squeal to make his cock twitch.

“I told you you’d enjoy it,” he crowed. She sobbed at the taste of her own arousal, and the hand on her head stroked her hair. Oh how he loved to pretend to soothe them. “Don’t cry, dear. There’s no shame in admitting I make you wet, nor in taking what little pleasure I’m willing to give you.”

When he pulled his fingers out of her mouth, trailing them over her lips to smear what wetness hadn't left his fingers, she started pleading.

Emilie had such a pretty, refined voice, and he thought there was almost nothing so sweet about her as when she uttered ‘please’ over and over again in tiny sobs. Almost.

He leant over her, climbing onto the gurney. His underwear was far too tight now, and something needed to be done. “You’re mine now,” he panted, earnest and glaring, cocky and manic, “and that includes the hole between your legs. I could make you dance like a hanged man on the noose if I so wished. I’m the fuckin’ puppetmaster, poppet, and your shyness is only cute for now.”

She continued pleading.

“What?” he snarled, mainly to see if she would stop, or clarify what she wanted.

She still pled incoherently, the only other variations to her words prayers.

He fucked her.

Her wrists, cuffed by her sides, were so close to him it must seem terribly mocking for her. Poor thing. If she could just get one hand free, she might have a chance at pushing him off.

He became mildly entranced by her hands. Her fingers, long and fine, clenched against the air when he entered her, then she gouged her nails into her palms before gripping the filthy sheet below her like it could take her away, or remove her arousal. They were the biggest give to how much he was breaking her, the only tell she would currently let herself show.

He reached to hold her hand, and looked up to her face with a wild smirk.

She’d been squeezing her eyes shut, chewing her lip, but her mouth and eyes opened when his hand slipped into hers. Angry betrayal flashed in her eyes, along with despair. He chuckled darkly at her again, his arousal heightening.

When he was finished with her, he fastened and laced her corset back up and wheeled her through to the patient cell he’d prepared for her.

Her shoes he left hung over the open wooden door to mock her, tied together by the laces like sneakers over a power line. The barred door was locked shut, and he went back to watch the footage he’d just filmed, the keychain on his belt-loop where she'd never reach it.

When he slept, it was with ease, her sobs music to his ears.

Her happiness didn’t matter to him. After all, he was going to kill her within a few months.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna do a second chapter but I'm not sure if I'll pussy out and make the next chapter kinda wholesome, like the events here were just a sex thing and they're actually dating and happy, or if it will be more twisted. I might write and post both, but idk yet.
> 
> XOXO


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